The Bulldog Drummond Megapack

by H. C. McNeile

  Irma laughed, and lit a cigarette. “Dear little Phyllis,” she murmured. “Always so direct and positive, aren’t you? And now that you’ve been introduced to this room a little sooner than I had intended, tell me what you think of it?”

  Mrs Drummond looked about her, a look of complete bewilderment spreading gradually over her face.

  “What on earth does it all mean,” she said at length. “What are all these stones for?”

  “A model, my dear,” answered the other gently, “that it has taken Paul much labour and trouble to construct. A model that is accurate in every detail.”

  “A model of what?”

  “Of Stonehenge. One or two of the stones have been left out, but all the important ones are here. There for instance you see the Friar’s Heel, and that one is the altar stone. You know the legend, of course. Some authorities do not believe in it, but it’s a very pretty fairy story anyway. It runs that when the first rays of the rising sun on Midsummer Day shining over the Friar’s Heel strike this third stone, the name of which I have not yet told you, the ceremony begins.”

  Her voice was soft and almost caressing, nevertheless my lips were dry. For I knew what the third stone was.

  “It must have been an interesting ceremony, Phyllis. Can’t you see those wild-eyed priests clad in fantastic garments? Can’t you see that great rolling plain and the waiting multitude of savages—waiting in the hush that comes before the dawn for the first gleam of the sun above the horizon?”

  I was staring at her fascinated: her eyes were glittering feverishly—her cigarette was forgotten.

  “A minute more—and a sigh runs round the spectators. A few seconds, and the excitement grows. You can feel it—hear it like wind rustling in the trees.

  “Inside the sacred circle stand the priests—some by the altar stone, some by this third stone here. All eyes are turned towards the east to greet the arrival of their god. This is the day on which he vouchsafes them his visible presence longest: this is the day on which it is meet and proper that he should be propitiated and thanked. An offering must be made: a sacrifice given.

  “And on this third stone, waiting, too, for that first ray to strike her, lies the sacrifice. For those around her, for the hushed multitude outside, the moment that is just coming means life—the continuation of the benefits their god has bestowed on them since last Midsummer Day. For her it means—death: the stone on which she lies is the Slaughter Stone.”

  She fell silent, and I glanced at Mrs Drummond. She was staring at the speaker with a dawning horror in her eyes, and suddenly she bit the back other hand to keep back a cry. She knew—and I knew. But after a moment she pulled herself together with a great effort.

  “Most interesting,” she remarked steadily. “And did you have all these stones put up so that you could play charades on them?”

  Slowly the madness faded from the other’s face, and she flicked the ash from her cigarette on to the carpet. “That’s it,” she smiled. “A little game of let’s-pretend. We shall be playing it tomorrow, my dear—or rather tonight. What part would you like to take?”

  The silence grew unbearable, and yet once again did I take off my hat to that poor girl. She was powerless: she was trapped—but she was white clean through.

  “I am not very good at acting,” she said indifferently.

  “Yours will be a passive—even if a very important role,” returned the other. “No histrionic ability will be required.”

  “And may I ask,” I remarked politely, “if I am to be privileged with a part. I must say I don’t think much of the comfort of your stalls.”

  For the moment at any rate my role was clear: I must remain the outsider who had blundered into a madhouse. Slowly the woman turned and stared at me.

  “I think you will look nice as a dead-head,” she murmured.

  “Am I to understand that the rest of the audience will have paid for their seats?”

  “They will at any rate have worked hard,” she returned. “But I can assure you there will be no jealousy on that account. The unexpected guest is always welcome.”

  “Charming,” I said cheerfully. “At the same time, if it is all the same to you, I would rather like to know the hour the show starts so that until then I can enjoy my very short holiday in the manner I had intended to. Frankly this seat is giving me cramp.”

  I winked ostentatiously at Mrs Drummond: obviously this female must be humoured. But there was no response from her: somewhat naturally she accepted my role at its face value.

  “This gentleman knows nothing about your wicked game,” she burst out. “It’s unfair, it’s unjust to keep him here.”

  “To know nothing about the play is always an advantage,” returned the other. “However, I grow weary. We will retire, my dear Phyllis—so that we shall both be fresh for the performance.”

  She led the way to the door, and I was left alone with the man.

  “Look here, sir,” I said angrily, “this has gone far enough. I admit that what I told you sounds a bit fishy: nevertheless it happens to be the truth. And I insist upon being allowed to go. Or if you wish to give me in charge then send for the police. But this is preposterous. You now know that I am not one of them, whoever ‘they’ may be.”

  “And you,” he retorted calmly, “now know altogether too much. So for the purposes of this entertainment—positively for one night only—I fear you will have to be treated as if you were one of them.”

  He strolled through the door leading to the garage, and I heard the chink of metal against metal as he put the tools back on the bench. My last hope had gone, my last bluff had failed. When Mrs Drummond had failed to recognize me, and Irma herself had said “that’s genuine,” there had seemed for a while a possibility of escape. Now there was none. Now everything must depend on Drummond. He would follow the other three, of course, but without any idea of the strength he was walking into.

  I counted them up in my mind. There was the man called Paul, the chauffeur, the man with the damaged hand; the sailor—and last but not least the negro. So many I knew of personally; how many more there were remained to be seen. And what chance had Drummond against a bunch like that? If only I could have got away I could have warned him. I began to tug desperately at the steel bars until a woman’s laugh made me look up suddenly. Irma had returned.

  “You can save yourself the trouble, bank clerk,” she said mockingly, and at the sound other voice Paul returned.

  “I suppose we had better gag him, my dear,” he remarked, and she nodded carelessly.

  “Yes,” she said. “Gag him—and then go.”

  “This is an outrage,” I spluttered, and the next instant he had deftly slipped a gag into my mouth, and then wrapped a handkerchief round me.

  “If I hear a sound,” he said quietly, “I shall come down and finish you off on the spot. Carissima, you must be tired.” He crossed to the woman. “Won’t you come to bed?”

  “Go,” she said curtly. “I shall come in a few minutes.”

  He went unwillingly, and for a while the woman stood motionless staring in front of her. The strange look had returned to her eyes: she had forgotten my existence. Noiselessly she moved about on the thick black carpet, the incarnation of grace and beauty. First to one stone, and then to another she glided, as a hostess might move round her drawing-room, giving it the finishing touches before the arrival of her guests.

  And then at last she paused before the altar stone. She knelt down and ran her fingers along underneath it searching for something. At length she found it and pulled it out. It was the photograph of a man.

  Fascinated I watched her as she kissed it passionately: then she placed it on the altar in front of her, and bowed her head as if in prayer. I heard the murmur of the other voice, but the actual words I could not distinguish. And after a while I began to feel drowsy. The gleaming white light opposite seemed to be growing bigger and bigger my head lolled back. And on the instant I was wide awake again.

 
; Part of the roof was glassed in, like the roof of a racquet court, and some of the panes were open for ventilation. And staring through one of the openings was a man. His eyes were fixed on the kneeling woman: his face was inscrutable. Then he glanced at me, and for a brief second our eyes met. In am instant he had disappeared, and I was left trying to fit this new development into the jigsaw. For the man who had been staring through the skylight was the sailor.

  Still her voice droned on musically, but I paid no attention. It confirmed, of course, my knowledge that the sailor was one of them, but why should he be on the roof? Spying, presumably: spying on the woman. And when he realized that I had seen him he had disappeared at once for fear I might say something.

  “My lover! My god!”

  Her words, clear at last, came through the silent room, and once again I looked at her. With her hands clasped together she was rocking to and fro on her knees in front of the photograph.

  “Tonight, I come to you, my beloved.”

  And the lights shone on, gleaming like great stars against the black curtains. And the carpet seemed to glisten like some dark mountain pool deep hidden in the rocks. And the great white stones that rose from it took unto themselves life, and joined in a mighty chorus—”My beloved.”

  I closed my eyes: I was dreaming. It was some dreadful nightmare.

  “My beloved, I come to you.”

  The sailor was shouting it: the man who had sprung at me out of the ditch was shouting it: Paul, his face a seething mass of black passion, was shouting it. I was shouting it, too—shouting it better than anyone—shouting it so well and so loudly that the woman herself, Irma, looked into my eyes and praised me. I could feel her fingers on my eyelids, from a great distance she nodded as if satisfied. Then came darkness. I slept.

  It was daylight when I woke, cramped and stiff in every limb. There was a foul taste in my mouth, and I wondered if I had been drugged. I had noticed nothing peculiar on the handkerchief, but only on that supposition could I account for my condition. My head ached, my eyes felt bleary, and I’d have given most of my worldly possessions for a cup of tea.

  By a stupendous feat of contortion I twisted my head so that I could see my wrist watch, only to find that the damned thing had stopped. Not, I reflected, that it mattered very much what the time was: an odd hour or two this way or that was of little account situated as I was. And after a while I began to curse myself bitterly for having been such an utter fool. If only I hadn’t shown myself in the passage: if only…

  But what was the use? I hadn’t slipped off the car: I had shown myself in the passage. And here I was caught without, as far as I could see, a chance of getting away. What made it more bitter still was the knowledge I possessed, the invaluable knowledge, if only I could have passed it on. Why, if Hugh Drummond only knew, he, with his marvellous shooting ability, could dominate the whole scene from the roof. But he didn’t know, and all he would do would be to walk straight into the trap after the other three.

  After a while my thoughts turned in another direction—even less pleasant than the first. What was in store for us? Was it all some grim, fantastic jest, or was it a revenge so terrible that the mere thought of it made me almost sick? Could it be conceivably possible that this foul woman intended to kill Mrs Drummond in front of us all? And afterwards deal with us?

  It seemed inconceivable, and yet the trap at the Mere was just as dastardly. It was no good judging her by ordinary standards: therein lay the crux. She was mad, and to a mad woman everything is conceivable. Anyhow the present was bad enough without worrying over the future.

  Faintly through the wall I heard the self-starter being used, and then the car leave the garage. That must be the note going to Darrell and Co. Would they walk into it blindly, or would they take some rudimentary precautions? Would they believe that this woman did really intend to set Mrs Drummond free if they came?

  From every angle I turned the thing over in my mind only to arrive at the same brick wall each time. Whatever they did do or didn’t do, I was out of the picture. I was powerless to help them in any way so there wasn’t much use worrying.

  “Have we slept well?” came a sardonic voice from the door.

  Paul, with a sneering smile on his thin lips, was standing there looking at me. Then he came over and removed the handkerchief and the gag. For a time I could only move my jaws stiffly up and down, and make hoarse grunting noises—a thing which seemed to cause him unbounded amusement.

  “Damn you,” I croaked at last, “did you dope me last night?”

  “A very efficacious and but little known narcotic, Mr Seymour,” he remarked suavely, “was on the handkerchief I put round your mouth. Was your sleep dreamless and refreshing?”

  “For God’s sake,” I muttered, “give me something to drink. My tongue feels like a fungoidal growth.”

  “A defect, I admit,” he said, “in that particular drug. It leaves an unpleasant taste. And so I have much pleasure in telling you that it is on the matter of breakfast that I have come.”

  “Breakfast,” I shuddered. “If I saw an egg I’d be sick.”

  There came a little click from behind my chair, and the steel bars slipped off my wrists.

  “Stand up,” he said. “At the moment the warning is unnecessary, I know. But bear in mind that freedom from your late position does not imply any further concession. So—no monkey tricks.”

  He was right: at the moment—and for a considerable number of moments—the warning was unnecessary. Both my arms had gone to sleep: and as soon as I got up I was attacked by the most agonizing cramp in my left leg. But at last I managed to regain some semblance of normality.

  “Where’s that drink?” I muttered.

  “All in due course,” he returned. “Owing to the fact that certain small preparations have to be made here for our little entertainment tonight we have to find other accommodation for you today. It would be a great pity if the element of surprise was lacking. And so you will come with me, Mr Seymour: and you will bear in mind that I have a revolver in my hand, Mr Seymour, and that my finger is on the trigger, Mr Seymour. And that should you give me the slightest trouble, you wretched interfering little busybody, that finger will connect with the trigger and the result will connect with you. So, hump yourself.”

  I could feel the muzzle of his gun in the small of my back as he pushed me towards the door. But I didn’t care: anything was better than the atrocious discomfort of that stone seat. Moreover a drink appeared to be looming on the horizon.

  The door led into the hall. No one was about, and still in the same positions we reached the foot of the stairs.

  “Up,” he said curtly.

  At a turn in the staircase stood a grandfather clock, and I saw it was half past nine. So I reckoned I must have slept for five or six hours.

  “Through that door,” he ordered.

  A man I had never seen before rose as we came in. But I didn’t care about him: my eyes were riveted on a teapot.

  “Charles will be your companion for today,” he remarked. “And you had better look at Charles.” I did: then I returned to the teapot. As an object to contemplate Charles did not appeal to me.

  “Charles has orders,” continued the other, “to deal faithfully with you in the event of the slightest trouble. That is so, isn’t it, Charles?”

  “I’ll deal with ’im faithfully, guv’nor,” he chuckled. “’E won’t try nothing on twice, I gives yer my word. Why, I’d eat a little mess like that.”

  He emitted a whistling noise through a gap in his teeth.

  “Paint the wall wiv ’is faice, I will,” he continued morosely.

  “A character is Charles,” said Paul to me. “Equally handy with his fists or a knife. So be careful, Mr Seymour—very careful.”

  I gulped down my cup of tea and began to feel better. “I am sure I shall find him a most entertaining companion,” I murmured. “Now don’t let me detain you any more, little man. Run away and have your children’s hou
r with the bricks downstairs. Or are you going to play puffers in the passage?”

  And, astounding to relate, it got home. For a moment I thought he was going to hit me. His face was white with rage, his fists were clenched—evidently a gentleman without the saving grace of humour. But he controlled himself and went out slamming the door behind him, and I began to feel better still.

  Anyway my limbs were free, and I’d had something to drink. Moreover there were cigarettes in my pocket. “Charles,” I said, “will you smoke?”

  Charles said—”Yus,” and I began to take close stock of Charles. And one thing was quite obvious at first glance. He was perfectly capable of painting the wall with my face if it came to a trial of strength. So that if I was going to turn the change of quarters to my advantage it would have to be a question of brain and cunning and not force. And the first and most obvious method seemed bribery.

  I led up to it tactfully, but diplomacy was wasted on Charles. At the mention of the word money his face became quite intelligent.

  “’Ow much ’ave you?” he demanded.

  “About thirty pounds,” I answered. “It’s yours here and now if you’ll let me go, and then there’s nothing to prevent you clearing out yourself.”

  “Let’s see the colour of it,” he said, and with a wild hope surging up in me I pulled out my pocket book. If I got away at once I’d be in time.

  “There you are,” I cried. “Twenty-eight pounds.”

  “Looks good to me,” he remarked. “Though I ain’t partial to fivers myself. Some suspicious blokes takes the numbers. You ain’t suspicious are you, matey?”

  He slipped the bundle into his pocket, and I stood up.

  “Is it safe now,” I said eagerly.

  “Is wot safe now?”

  “For me to go, damn it.”

  “Go where?”

  “Out of the house, as you promised.”

  “Naughty, naughty,” he said reproachfully. “Do you mean to say that that there money was hintended as a bribe?”

  I stared at him speechlessly.

  “And I thort as ’ow it was just a little return for the pleasure of be’olding my faice.”